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Misc Drabbles (Zee Fic)
Sometimes I write really short fic that don't really deserve their own page. Hence, I have made a page for such fic. In reverse chronological order. ironic charming, a wattpad fanfiction (19.01.20) Iconic Charming, being a famous spellebrity, has attracted the hearts of fans everywhere! And not just the heart of fans, but also the desire to write copious amounts of fanfiction of fans. In this fic, which has in-universe, been published on the EAH-version of "wattpad". The summary reads: "Iconic Charming finds out that she has a twin, named Ironic. How will they get along? will jelly-sea result ? (can't spell). find out in this spellbinding story!" ~*~ hi my name is ironic charming, and i have deep red hair and pale skin. sometimes i dont go out in the sunlight because it can be very blinding. i like to stay home away from all the lights. i live with my single father, and he is easily stressed one day, im musing about my life and watching mirrortube videos on repeat for i feel a void in my life. i was debating on purchasing an evanescent charming perfume when suddenly my dad burst int o my room, after knocking politely first. "roni dear!!" he says in a fatherly voice because he has no other voice or personality. "we are going to go on a road trip." "great," i said, since nothing happens in sacremento. so now im in the car on our way to los angeles. i start to disagree with this roadtrip idea, since the cost of living in LA is too much for my cheapskate heart. read more... calf thymus, untimely ripped (12.01.20) Written February 2018. Published now, because I'm trying my best. Some small thoughts from Parker Valiant's mother. ~*~ It must be futile then, to protect her son. Shield him away from the world, and the world will come to him - armed with horses and swords, with all the celestial graces of angels themselves. Bring the world to him, let him immerse himself and live in it, and he’ll die in it also. When her husband rushed off into monk-hood, taking their daughter with him to send off to the convert, the world was cruel. When her first two sons died, honourably, bathed in their own blood and the blood of Romans, the world was cruel. When she found herself with nothing but her third son, the world was cruel. Your son will be praiseworthy, the world told her. Your son will be shielded in armour and accolades. Your son will lay claim to the holiest item of them all - the Grail itself. But she didn’t want her son to be those things. Her husband were. Her other sons were. Her daughter was going to be. Honour and knighthood was already enough in her life - yet, look, he radiated the same innocence, the same purity as his father. He could be Aeneas himself, he could have showered in piety and the love of the gods. The Absolute, and the Old Gods, would all sing his praises. The knights came to their woods - not the neck of the woods, but the thymus of the woods, buried deep and tucked away. On horses, with swords, bearing banners. To Ever After High, they took him, and the praises in her head sang like a funeral dirge. make this baron's child a king (11.01.20) Originally written in early 2016 as a character exploration for Ramsey, this fic was recently edited and updated to make publishable on the Wikia. It is about the early pre-EAH life of Ramsey Baartholomew, though not in excruciating detail. ~*~ at 6, ramsey bartholomew wished they was greater. merely the third daughter of a baron and baroness, from a tiny kingdom nested off in french countryside, hardly deserving of any royal title. they wished that their father wasn’t born fifth but seventh. they wished that they hadn’t been one place from seventh child, because even being a werewolf would have been far interesting than a noble living in an unknown barony. the castle – if you could even call it that: the castle resembled more of a decent-sized villa than a proper palace, the flowers never bloomed on time and the gardeners and kitchen staff were far too slack – was always in disrepair. their uncles and aunts, when they visited, would look up at their noses and down on the family. from a young age, ramsey realised that their barony was poor in wealth and resources, so they wanted to be rich in character. ~*~ at 10, they already started dreaming of power. of kingdoms that would bow to her and wealth beyond measure. ramsey envisions themself in different forms. a warrior princess. a diplomatic queen. the hero of epics and ballads and tapestries. but youth’s mask did not shield reality from finding you. it shielded you from finding reality. ~*~ at 13, ramsey tried to forget the humble villages their family ran, tried to forget her older siblings falling into loveless marriages and tried to forget political strife and servants who hated their jobs. tried to forgot how the economy of their small barony was dropping and tried to forget the inescapable pull of responsibility. escapism came in many forms. fiction helped, but the characters in the books and songs reminded ramsey that other people had problems and they burdened themself with the nonexistent issues of nonexistent characters. instead, ramsey always ended up finding themself frolicking through fields and climbing trees. they knew they might never see themself serve as a ruler, but being an adventurer was open to anyone, right? ~*~ that year, they kissed a girl. afterwards, they felt embarrassed and didn't know what to say so they just gave her a cool volcanic rock that they found in a field once. "in ten years, i'll be married," ramsey said. "and i will forget this." "but i will not forget your kindness," she said. the fairytale world usually does not. saving a bird with a broken wing may grant you a favour from them. rescuing a fish, untrapping a rabbit. the fairytale world understands not to demean the old lady, not to underestimate the third son. but ramsey was a fifth child, not the youngest child. they will marry a marquis, grow up comfortable. within five years, they knew their parents would be talking to others, with no time left for them to see the world themself. a few days later, the girl returned the volcanic rock to ramsey. in this case, she was embarrassed. ~*~ 14 years old and a knock on the door. people in suits, with a request to see the heads of the household. in hushed voices, they talked to the baroness and baron, they carried paperwork and signed cheques. "ramsey," their mother went down to their room, knocking on their door. they looked up from their graphic novels and took out their earphones. "dress yourself well. come upstairs." but dressing their best was not dressing well. they flung on a cheap fake fur coat (hand-me-down from an older sister who was told once married to dress better) over a worn button-down and simple black trousers (too dark to distinguish cheap materials or imperfections), and walked up with shoes scruffed from outdoor play. in a mirror they passed they caught a glimpse of themself: could they ever be the prince that someone dreamed of? like looking upon deteriorated ruins, one might believe something almost gone and ghostly could be restored their old might, once powerful. the people in suits nodded silently to one another. they will turn this baron's child into a king. ~*~ dear ramsey bartholomew, read the letter in all its cursive and parchment glory. we invite you to attend ever after high as the next king ram. Damon Goes To California (09.07.19) this is a story about a lad called Damon, except that he's from Kansas so he's not a lad, thank you very much, but a very cool and respectable midwestern gentleman. except he's also not that, because he's still a kid in school. to become less of a kid in school, you need to be responsible and sometimes a tornado isn't enough to do the trick. So Damon is in California, being responsible for himself. he has money and needs to spend it wisely, which is why he's at a boba place rn. he orders the regular boba drink. he is unaware what boba is because he's from kansas. he takes a fucking sip babe and the tapioca is unexpected and he throws the drink down on the shop floor like what the fuck and causes an inconvenience for the workers at the boba shop. The end. Comfortably Numb (03.07.19) The child is gone, the dream is dead and I have become comfortably numb. Utility Fei stirred their chai tea, seeming incredibly focused on the foam. “I think he’s very angry at me.” “Who?” Chanel Lyang sat opposite them. Her long red-brown hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail. She clicked the heel of her newly shined shoes on the metal bars of the chair she sat at, and did her best to look emotionally detached from the conversation. At a nondescript coffee shop, the changelings who currently call themselves Utility Fei and Chanel Lyang meet once more. “Potential Charming,” they continued stirring, until the coffee swirled up to the very edges of the cup, and started to drip down the sides. “I went to visit him and his family last weekend.” “I can’t imagine why.” These meetings were as commonplace as their schedules would allow. Utility would spill on their life, all the fun details, and Chanel would nod, make her dry remarks, and then throw in something enigmatic about work. Chanel appreciated the meetings. The other changeling was such a young upstart in this form -- early twenties will do that to you. They were more interesting when they were middle-aged, playing the aged wise mentor, or the mid-thirties prince with his life together. In other words, they were better suited to their human back when they were Potential Charming. “Apparently he’s still mad that I took away part of his parenthood,” Utility continued. “Look, his boy’s six. Prime age to teach the kid some cycling. I didn’t take that away from him -- the bike riding, that is.” “When I was-- I mean, when my last host was two--” Chanel began to say, then stopped herself. Instead, she opted for, “Utility, you’re dense.” “Actually, no. This body is twenty. I’m very young and so very squishy,” they tapped the sides of their cheeks twice with the flat side of their fingers. “See? Twenty-year-old humans are so squishy.” “Last time I experienced being twenty was sixteen years old,” Chanel said. “There’s enough time between now and then to fill an entire book series.” The croissant that sat on her plate was only barely nibbled. She moved it off the plate and onto a napkin, then delicately back onto the plate. In the brief gap of the conversation, Chanel raised a hand to wave over a waitstaff to refill her espresso. “Do you remember much of it?” “I lived at home. It was unpleasant. Next question.” “You’re letting me ask you questions? Chanel, what an honour.” “Forget I said anything. You should enjoy the consistency of these years. Though, with you, nothing is ever consistent is it?” She narrowed her eyes. It was a correct accusation. Utility Fei has never managed to inhabit a human for more than three years. Soon, they would no longer be Utility Fei, and Chanel did not know how soon. “Well,” Chanel continued. “With all your inconsistency, at least you could regale me with one story from your previous life.” Utility’s face lit up. “Oh, I got syphilis once.” “Uh.” “Inhabited a businessman. I forget the age -- old as balls. Point is, I ended up donating all his money and property and assets to charity. Left none to his children, legitimate and illegitimate. Did I do the right thing?” “Depends. Did we ever meet when you were in that form?” “No, of course not. It was disgraceful! No fun at all. Especially the syphilis part,” Utility laughed nervously. “He was self-made with two million from his father.” With a wry smile, Chanel added: “Fun.” “Could have been better. Regretful that despite getting syphilis, I didn’t end up being Marthe’s departed husband in Faust.” “Is that… is that something you want?” “No. Not really. But even a villainous or… I don’t know, otherwise morally off-course legacy would be cooler than none?” Utility winked. “So, Chanel--” “That’s not in my job description.” “Okay. Alright.” They had finished their chai, and dusted off their mouth with a napkin. “This was good talk, Chanel,” they said as they stood up. “Off already?” “You did say: ‘Utility, I can barely schedule in fifteen minutes of my time for you’. It’s fifteen minutes now.” Utility Fei swung their lab coat over their shoulders, clapped Chanel on the shoulders, and took off. Fanmail (13.08.17) He received a fanmail last night, scanned through the contents, and buried it with the rest. It was unlike the love letters. Those, he received plenty. Not the thank you notes, which were even more common, and more heavily perfumed. Icarus Juniper approached fanmail with caution. There was a price to pay among the honour of being a Grimm’s Grimmest. Those who claimed to love you also love missing the point. They saw guts, they saw gore. Streaks of blood, flesh in pot. All that was polluted and unholy, all that which put the grim in Grimm. They did not see rebirth, they did not see light. The Juniper Tree was hope, it was renewal, it was chance. As much as one gets ripped apart, one nevertheless becomes whole again. It was easy to approach the story with a dark demeanour. Icarus knew that first-hand. It was easy to be swept away by the horror, it was easy to rot from the savagery. But it was tiring. One cannot live like that, Icarus reckons, or Earth already becomes afterlife to them. I love the Juniper Tree, read the letter. But they don't. He thinks of his role -- the bird brother -- and how passive people have made him out to be. No. Let him be strong. Let him be brave. Let him be able to reconcile with his sister. Let him realise he deserved better than his stepmother. Let him be unforgiving towards a neglectful father, and forgiving towards his own self. Let him surround himself with all things morbid and macabre, and make peace with them. (At least, Icarus hopes he would.) He places a clean sheet of paper down, and his hand over his heart. No matter how much he disliked the letter, he always sent a reply. The more formulaic, the greater such dislike. “Thank you for your letter,” the black ink presses deep into the patterned stationery sheet, the letters printed neat and clear. I wish you could find another tale to invest yourself in. 40. A Softer World (21.07.17) Inspired by number 40 from this list of prompts. ♡ Shelley Keaton / Sylvia Lisabetta ♡ “I laugh inside but inside I know it's true. (Being in love is so punk rock).” ---- “Is it a radical statement to love you?” When Shelley asks that question, their eyes are half-lidded, their head rests ever so delicately on Sylvia’s legs. The sun’s rays slip through the gaps between the leaves of the tree they're under, soft, silent. Is it radical to be star-crossed? No -- to love Sylvia is so easy. How can one not be overwhelmed by her? She walks in beauty, is their divine image, their Grecian urn. Shelley cannot turn that into a statement; it just is. Nature is sublime, Sylvia even more so. The thrill is not in success. It's not to win her hand (as for her heart, they have already). It's not to win a family favour, not to live life unharmed. The thrill is in something starkly simple. It's to love. But in the same breath, yes. It is radical - it must be - to look fate in the eye and wish otherwise. (Happy endings do not belong to people like them.) (What else could they do but yearn for one?) To be radical is to move forward, to push for the future. Yet, Shelley can only look upwards with nineteenth century eyes. Tragedy enhances the beauty of love; to end with a funeral is more romantic than a wedding. Wishes, Shelley thinks, remain the more beautiful unfulfilled. “I would die for you,” it's not the first time they've said this, it won't be the last. But every time those words weigh heavy in the air. “The moon must perish every night to make way for the sun.” They speak as if commanding the elements themselves. (How could one be - at seventeen - so certain to declare such a thing?) In response, Sylvia lifts her lover’s hand and brings it to her lips. “Yes,” she says. “But could you live for me?” Category:Fanfiction Category:Original Character Fanfiction Category:Zena's Storybook Collection